


Risk and Reward

by medjc



Series: Tumblr Requests [4]
Category: Borderlands (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Awkward Tension, Canon Era, Emotional Constipation, F/M, Fluff, Tumblr Prompt, cue sitcom laugh track, fiona buys rhys a new arm and has to help him put it on, god. so much emotional constipation, repost because ao3 was bullying me
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-09-30
Packaged: 2019-07-20 16:29:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,018
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16141106
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/medjc/pseuds/medjc
Summary: Fiona’s no stranger to making questionable decisions.Well, okay, that might be underselling it. Maybewell acquaintedwith the concept—and act—would be a more accurate way to phrase it, but hey, you don’t survive this long in her line of work without living on the edge and taking more than a few shots in the dark.Still. Forking over her own (scrounged and/or stolen) money to digistruct a new cybernetic arm shell for a guy she doesn’t evenlike?That’s a new one.





	Risk and Reward

**Author's Note:**

> Another request from [Valoscope](https://valoscope.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr! Set in the Atlas biodome facility, but assuming the gang spends a few days hanging around before Cassius shows up fifteen minutes late with Starbucks.

Fiona’s no stranger to making questionable decisions.

Well, okay, that might be underselling it. Maybe _well acquainted_ with the concept—and act—would be a more accurate way to phrase it, but hey, you don’t survive this long in her line of work without living on the edge and taking more than a few shots in the dark.

Still. Forking over her own (scrounged and/or stolen) money to digistruct a new cybernetic arm shell for a guy she doesn’t even _like_?

That’s a new one.

Fiona chews on the inside of her cheek, arms crossed and scowling down at where she tossed the damn thing on the table shortly after the machine spat it out. He hadn’t even asked for it. She’d seen him looking, sure, idly perusing through the menus more out of boredom than any real interest in actually buying anything.

But just what in the hell possessed her to get it _for_ him, she can’t even begin to guess. Desert madness? Temporary insanity? Maybe the funny aftertaste that drakefruit had wasn’t just because it wasn’t quite ripe yet?

“Will you just go give it to him already?” Sasha pipes up with a sigh from where she’s sitting cross legged on the floor and taking apart one of the old pistols she found somewhere to clean it. “You’ve just been standing there staring at it for, like, twenty minutes. It’s getting kind of weird.”

“Oh, it has _not_ been that long,” Fiona argues without even looking up from the stupid arm. Twenty minutes? Really? More like ten. Maaaybe fifteen, but that’s pushing it.

She’s pretty sure she can see Sasha roll her eyes in her peripheral. “It’s still weird, Fi.”

“ _You’re_ weird,” she huffs back all snarkily, finally unrooting herself from her spot to spin around and tap at the screen on the PTM. “Do you think this thing does refunds?”

“Does what thing do refunds?”

Fiona very nearly jumps out of her own skin at the sound of Rhys’ voice. Because of course he would show up at the most inopportune time ever. Of course he would. Why is she even surprised? Fate always loves giving her a swift kick in the ass when she least expects it. It’s what she deserves for letting her guard down.

Fiona whirls around just in time for Rhys to waltz through the doorway with Gortys in tow. She leaps forward to snatch the arm off the table and hide it behind her back real fast before he can see it, scoffing disdainfully when his gaze—naturally—gravitates towards Sasha first before eventually drifting over to her.

He raises a questioning eyebrow at her stance, opening his mouth like he intends to comment on it before closing it again in favor of just watching her shuffle awkwardly around the table instead.

“ _What_?” she snaps, as if she doesn’t already know exactly _what_.

“I, uh. Nothing?” He shakes his head and folds his arms in front of him. “I just— Why are you... walking like that?”

That gets Sasha’s attention, and she glances up briefly only to level Fiona with this really flat look once she figures out what she’s trying to do. Or, rather, what she’s trying _not_ to do. Fiona makes a face at her, which Rhys definitely doesn’t miss, but before he can open his big, dumb mouth to say anything about it, Fiona decides to open hers.

“Nothing. No reason. I’m not doing anything. Mind your business. It’s not weird.”

“I... didn’t say it was weird,” Rhys points out, narrowing his eyes a little and leaning to the side like he’s trying to see what she’s holding behind her back. “What are you—”

“ _Nothing_ ,” she insists vehemently as she backs herself into a corner, the arm safely hidden between her and the wall. There. Perfect. Now all she has to do is just... not move whatsoever. At least until Rhys leaves again and she can go chuck this thing in the trash. And also forcibly suppress this entire incident from her memory.

But that’s probably not going to happen any time soon judging from how thoroughly unconvinced Rhys looks. Even Gortys seems curious now, peeping around his leg to look between the both of them a few times before zipping over to park herself right at Fiona’s feet.

“Are you hiding something?” Gortys asks like she already knows the answer. Great. Not even the robot bought it.

Fiona adjusts her hold on the arm as nonchalantly as she can, trying weakly, “Nnn... Nooo?”

It’s like everybody in the room takes a second to visibly react to that solely so Fiona knows just how unbelievable it was. Sasha actually sets down the gun she’s reassembling to drop her head in her hands, while Rhys snorts and does a really shitty job of covering it up with a cough. Gortys, on the other hand, just squints accusingly— or, uh, whatever the hell the equivalent of that is when you’re more or less an adorable little ball on wheels and don’t exactly have eyes to squint.

“You,” Gortys starts, jabbing a metal finger in her direction, “are not a very good liar.”

“You would think she’d be better at it considering it’s kind of her job,” Rhys agrees.

Fiona opens her mouth to retort with a quick-witted comeback, but nothing winds up coming out. So she just settles on frowning at him in an attempt to convey just how much she hates his guts through facial expression alone. Yeah, that’ll show him.

He doesn’t look even remotely discouraged. And to make matters worse, she’s so busy glowering at him that she doesn’t even notice Gortys moving around to take a peek at what she’s holding behind her until she gasps, “ _Whoa_ ,” and then, “Is that a _hand_?”

Oh, crap.

“Gortys,” Fiona begins warningly, but she’s already reaching up to start pulling the arm out from where it’s still stuck between Fiona’s back and the wall. She tries her damndest to keep a hold on it, she really does, but her hands are sweaty and the angle is weird and Gortys is surprisingly strong for her size. “Please don’t—”

One more tug and the shell is free, falling to the floor with a hollow _clang_. The rest of Fiona’s desperate plea dies on the tip of her tongue, and for a minute, they all just stare at the limb in painfully, _horrifically_ awkward silence.

Then Gortys goes, “ _Oooh_ ,” and grabs a hold of the damn thing again to drag it over towards Rhys. “Look, Rhys, it’s just like yours but cooler!”

Fiona snaps her still-open mouth shut. No, yeah, this is totally fine. She’s fine with this. Fine, fine, fine.

She brushes her bangs back and fidgets with the brim of her new hat and ducks her chin to sulk petulantly at the floor. God, why does it suddenly feel, like, ten degrees hotter in here?

“...Huh,” Rhys says after a moment, and from the dull scrape of metal on tile, she thinks he picks up the arm off the floor. But she doesn’t know for sure, because she’s not looking, and even _thinking_ about looking has her stomach twisting into backflips. “This... Where did you find this?”

The question is obviously addressed at Fiona, but all she offers him is a lame, one-shouldered shrug. Sasha sighs, loud and impatient, and explains for her, “She bought it. Out of the thingy.”

Oh, right under the bus, huh? What the hell? Fiona glances up to glare murderously at her sister only to find she’s very dutifully not looking at her as she gestures over at the Quick Change station. And then Fiona makes the mistake of chancing a glimpse at Rhys, who isn’t even paying any attention to where Sasha is pointing. He’s just gaping at _her_ with this look of muted shock and disbelief and... something else she can’t quite put her finger on.

Fiona drops her gaze to continue staring a hole in the floor, her stomach now not only doing backflips but also somersaults and cartwheels and maybe even a little bit of contemporary dance. Ugh. It’s not like this is the first time Rhys has ever made her want to puke—be it from something he said or just because of him as a person—but it’s never felt... like this. All distracting and uncomfortable and _different_.

She really shouldn’t have eaten that drakefruit.

Another minute passes before Rhys belatedly repeats with no small amount of incredulity, “You bought this? For— For _me_?”

Fiona huffs and crosses her arms and pretends to be very interested in the state of her nail beds. “Well, it’s not like any of the rest of us are part cyborg or whatever. And, you know, I had the cash to spare, so.”

She actually used the last of what she had on that stupid thing, but.

...Like she said, questionable decisions.

Rhys goes quiet for so long that Fiona risks peeking up at him again. He’s not gawking at her anymore at least, but he’s studying the shell in his hands so intently that he looks like he might pop a blood vessel at any moment.

Fiona sighs, crossing her arms and fisting her hands in her sleeves. “Look, if you don’t want it—”

“I want it,” he interrupts much louder than is probably strictly necessary, still looking rather tense. Is he sweating? She thinks he’s sweating. “I mean, uh, I’d... like to keep it. If that’s okay with you.”

“I literally bought it with the intention of giving it to you, Rhys.”

“Right. Yeah. Okay. Cool. Whatever.” He goes back to mutely watching that thing like it’ll sprout legs and run away if he doesn’t keep an eye on it.

God, he’s so weird.

The conversation lulls back into discomfiting silence, and they’re all content to ignore it until Gortys abruptly inquires, “Are you going to put it on?”

And all Rhys has to say to that is this really long and drawn-out, “Uhhh,” that just keeps going even as he looks to Fiona for... help? Moral support? What? Why is that a hard question to answer?

“Aw,” Sasha coos teasingly, pushing herself up to her feet with her now-clean gun and moving over to set it on the table before turning back to Rhys with her arms crossed. “Does Humpty Dumpty need help ripping his arm off and putting himself back together again?”

A beat passes. He doesn’t deny it.

“Oh,” Sasha says like she hadn’t actually thought she’d hit the nail on the head with that one. She looks pointedly back at Fiona, who starts shaking her head so vigorously that she almost makes herself dizzy from it, and then down at Gortys, who makes this gesture that vaguely resembles a shrug.

Sasha purses her lips and nods to herself, appearing to be convincingly resigned to her fate.

But then she blurts in one big rush, “Onetwothreenotit.”

“Not it!” Gortys echoes before Fiona can even think to open her mouth. “Wait, what are we not being?”

Sasha smiles at Gortys, starting to herd her towards the exit that leads outside while Fiona tries to come to terms with the stunt her sister just pulled. She’s the one that taught her that trick when they were kids, goddammit, only to be so heartlessly betrayed fifteen years later down the line. Unbelievable. Her own flesh and blood. That was just... That was _dirty_.

“Come on, Gortys,” Sasha’s saying, treating Fiona with a grin that can only be described as perfectly complacent and utterly shit-eating over her shoulder. “Let’s give these two some privacy.”

“What do they need privacy for?” Gortys wonders.

“Weeell—”

“Sasha,” Fiona hisses threateningly between gritted teeth as she completely neglects to notice how _hot_ her face is all of a sudden. “Sasha, don’t you _dare_ —”

“We’ll be back later,” Sasha asserts cheerfully as she and Gortys pass through the doorway, lowering her voice once they’re past the threshold, to, presumably, finish filling Gortys’ robot brain with flimsy, untrue, stone-cold _lies_.

And then they’re gone. And she and Rhys are alone.

And Fiona reaaally wishes she could just crawl under the table and hide for the rest of, well, forever.

“This isn’t, uh,” Rhys starts after they’ve stewed in the suffocating silence for a bit. “This isn’t a— a big deal, or anything. I probably won’t even need your help for most of it, but, um—”

“Why can’t Vaughn do it?” Fiona cuts him off, shifting her weight from one foot to the other and making it a point to avoid direct eye contact.

She can still see Rhys open and close his mouth a few times out of the corner of her eye though, rubbing awkwardly at the back of his neck. “Because he’s... paralyzed?”

Oh. Right. Whoops.

“And Loader Bot wandered off with him a while ago,” Rhys continues. “I don’t really know where they went, exactly, but uh, yeah. So.”

Fiona heaves a sigh to rival all other sighs as she pushes herself off the wall. “Fine. Whatever. Let’s just get this over with.”

Rhys sets the new arm down on the table and takes a seat next to it while Fiona meanders the rest of the way over to stand stiffly off to the side. At this, he gives her a dry look.

“You can sit down, you know,” he tells her. “It would actually make things easier if you did.”

She draws in another breath and lets it out as slowly and heavily as she possibly can, giving one of her infamous full-body eye rolls so he knows just how much he’s massively inconveniencing her. But she still sinks down into the chair to his right after a moment, if only to make him shut up and get on with it already.

But he doesn’t. Or at least, he doesn’t get very far. He does something with his implant, she thinks, his eye lighting up bright blue and then deactivating again just as quickly. But he seems to hit a wall after rearranging his cybernetic arm more comfortably on the surface of the table, just starting to reach for the plating on his forearm when he suddenly freezes right in his tracks.

“What?” Fiona prompts him as she props her elbow up and leans her chin into her hand. “Forget how to take your own arm off?”

He makes this face like she’s stupid for even asking. “Uh, no. It doesn’t even— You can’t just _take it off_. At least not in the way that you’re thinking. It’s... kind of connected. To me. Internally.”

She blinks. “Oh.”

“Yeah. The protective shell, though,” he taps on the bicep of the new one, “has a tendency to get banged up pretty fast, so they can be swapped out no problem. But, uh, removing the internal unit would... take a lot longer. Delicate wiring to deal with and all that.”

“Right.”

He seems to think on that for a minute, eventually giving this weird little shudder. “Eugh. Even thinking about it gives me the creeps.”

“Well,” Fiona starts a little uncertainly, “I doubt you’ll ever be in a life or death situation over it. Like, you either have to rip your own arm off or you’ll be brutally murdered by a deranged psychopath. Or whatever.” She shrugs. “You’ll be fine. Probably.”

“That was... oddly specific. Thanks for the nightmare fuel.”

“You’re welcome.”

He gives her a funny look before shaking his head. “Just... Would you mind getting a screwdriver for me? I can’t get the shell off without one. I think I saw an old toolkit over by the computers that should probably do the trick.” He waves his flesh hand over towards the console on the other side of the room.

Fiona raises a dubious eyebrow. “What, your legs don’t work all of a sudden?”

“I already powered down my arm for the switch.”

She gives it a minute, but he doesn’t follow up that statement with an actual, viable reason why he can’t go get the damn kit himself. So she just repeats, “So your legs don’t work all of a sudden?”

Rhys uses his left hand to pinch the bridge of his nose and rub at his forehead like _she’s_ the one being ridiculous. “Look, do you want to be helpful or not?”

Oh, for god’s sake. She is _not_ getting into a fight with him over something as dumb as this. He wants her to cater to his every whim and desire just because he’s too lazy to boot his little robot arm back up again and do it himself? Sure! Fine! Whatever! What does she care? Not like she has any dignity left to defend anyway. She tossed it all out the window when she bought him the new shell in the first goddamn place.

But still, that doesn’t mean she’s going to be _happy_ about it. She stands up with a huff, marching over to the computers and digging around through the piles of trash littered across the floor until she finds the toolkit Rhys was talking about. Then she returns to her seat, dropping the box in front of him and slouching back in her chair to fold her arms over her chest and watch sulkily as he picks through the contents for what he’s looking for.

He unscrews and removes each individual plate of the nauseatingly yellow shell he’s currently using one at a time, starting with his fingers and working his way upwards. It’s not a quick process yet not an unbearably slow one either, but Fiona still finds herself getting bored rather quickly. As it turns out, Rhys isn’t very talkative when he’s focused, but she gets the feeling it’s not a good idea to try to start a conversation either. The internal parts of his arm she can see as more pieces of the protective cover come off _do_ look pretty complicated and fragile, even to her untrained eye. Distracting him would probably be bad, especially if he wound up shoving that screwdriver somewhere it doesn’t belong.

Fiona scoots backwards in her chair after a few more minutes, propping her feet up on the table and crossing them at the ankles and deciding to amuse herself by studying Rhys’ face as he works. He’s always so goofily expressive and right now is no exception; his eyebrows furrowed low in concentration and his tongue just barely poking out of the corner of his mouth and a disobedient piece of his hair falling down across his forehead. She idly wonders how it would look if it wasn’t all pushed back like that, or at least if he didn’t use so much hair gel. Does he even use hair gel? Probably.

But, she decides after ruminating on it some more, it would no doubt look just as absurd. It’s the haircut, she thinks. Whoever talked him into getting it styled like that is a bad person and should feel bad for what they did. Like, it’s not _terrible_ , but it could definitely be a lot better and why the hell does she even care so much about his goddamn stupid ass hair.

“Hey, uh,” Rhys thankfully interrupts that particularly concerning train of thought before it can even leave the station. “Can you— Would you mind—”

Fiona sighs, letting her eyes slide shut and rolling her neck around impatiently. “What do you need me to get?”

“I’m not— I don’t really need you to, um, _get_ something for me, per se, but I can’t quite reach this part of...”

He evidently lacks the vocabulary needed to finish that sentence, or maybe he’s just being weird. Either way, she opens her eyes again to take a look at what the problem is herself.

There’s only a few pieces of the shell left to remove, all of them around his shoulder and upper bicep. It looks like he’s trying to get at the one on the back of his arm but he’s obviously having trouble with the angle, unable to even so much as raise his elbow above his head to get a better view. It probably doesn’t help that the screws are so damn small and the lighting in here isn’t the best right now either.

So. She guesses this is what he needed a second person for.

Trying not to grimace at the thought of being all up in his personal space, Fiona slides her legs off the table and lets her feet fall back to the floor before she starts dragging her chair closer to him. He wordlessly passes her the screwdriver when she holds a hand out, looking like he wants to say something before apparently thinking better of it. He opts instead to politely turn his head away so she can do her thing without the pressure of being scrutinized the entire time. Or maybe he just thinks she stinks or something. Unlike him, surprisingly. To tell the truth, the longer she sits this close to him, the more she realizes that actually he smells kind of... good?

Fiona’s hands fumble and the screwdriver slips between her fingers, falling to the ground with a _clank_.

“Shit,” she swears under her breath, bending over to retrieve the tool and forcefully shoving that immensely uncomfortable discovery into the darkest reaches of her brain. Or, at least, the darkest reaches she can manage while still being subject to invading his bubble and smelling him with every single breath she takes.

Dammit. Shit. Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it don’t think about it don’t think about it.

“Are you okay?” Rhys asks her out of nowhere, because while she was extremely busy totally not thinking about it, he apparently felt the need to turn his head back around and take in whatever downright miserable expression she’s making right now.

“You smell,” she begins, wincing at the shakiness of her voice before swallowing hard and finishing stiffly, “really weird.”

“Oh,” is all he has to say to that. And then, “I’m... sorry? I guess?”

“No problem.”

It is _such_ a huge problem.

But, thankfully, she gets the rest of the screws out and the plate removed without any further disasters, automatically starting on his shoulder without him even having to ask. Once it’s ready to be popped off, she gives it a firm tug only to find it’s... still attached? But she could have sworn she got all the—

Rhys glances over to give her this sheepish look that makes her brain short circuit.

Oh, no. No _freaking_ way.

“It... goes up a little farther past my shoulder,” he explains as dread seethes painfully deep into her gut. Because of course he would wait until just _now_ to tell her. Of course he would. Of course. “I’m, uh. I’m going to have to—”

She holds up a hand to stop him, having to take a moment to choke back the hard lump that’s somehow found its way into her throat. “Just... Just do it.”

He blows out a heavy breath, bringing up his left hand to loosen that thing he calls a tie before yanking it off and tossing it on the table in front of him. Then comes his vest, which he easily wiggles out of, but the buttons on his stupid, half-striped dress shirt seem to pose a unique problem seeing that he’s trying to undo them one-handed. Fiona drums her fingers on the table impatiently, ignoring the damnable burning in her cheeks, and when a minute passes and he’s _still_ not done, she leans forward to bat his arm out of the way with an indignant huff.

“What are you—”

“Shut up,” she snaps, unfastening the rest of the buttons as quickly as humanly possible while she tries not to mentally acknowledge the swirls of cerulean blue ink she can now see stretching across his bare torso. “Don’t make this weird.”

“I—” he starts weakly, sounding a little hoarse, and he clears his throat a few times before trying again, “I wasn’t, uh, planning on it? I think— I think you’ve got it covered.”

Oh, he’s sooo lucky her hands are occupied undressing him like the stupid, helpless idiot he is, otherwise she would have punched him in the neck for that. Why the neck specifically, she doesn’t know, but something about hitting him in that spot just seems _extra_ satisfying. She files it away as a mental note for later, in case he ever says something else annoying enough to warrant physical assault.

Which, knowing him, he almost definitely will.

Once his shirt is off, Fiona keeps her gaze up and solely focused on his shoulder. Seeing Rhys topless isn’t something she’s ever imagined being a thing—or even something she’s ever _wanted_ to be a thing—so she’s perfectly fine without that particular image seared into every nook and cranny of her brain, thanks very much. Like, sure, okay, there’s some things she can’t help but notice, like the surprising range of that blue tattoo on his chest, or this long, crooked scar extending down along his ribs, or the fact that he’s actually not as scrawny as she was expecting. Maybe more on the wiry side. But not by much.

And. So. Anyway. She was trying to make a point, wasn’t she? Shit.

Fiona gets the rest of the plating off as fast as she can after that, becoming more and more antsy as the minutes tick by. And then comes attaching the new shell, which is pretty much the same process but in reverse. Once she screws on all the pieces around his shoulder and the back of his bicep, she practically throws the screwdriver at him so he can take care of the rest.

And, miraculously, he puts his shirt back on before starting in on all that, so she doesn’t have to sit here and stare at the ceiling just so things aren’t so horrifically awkward. Which she actually winds up doing anyway, since she still has this feeling like she’s fallen head-first into a furnace.

She very pointedly doesn’t think too hard about why, exactly, that is.

It takes a little longer than it took for him to get the old one off, but Rhys eventually screws the last piece of the new shell into place on his pinky finger and reactivates his arm with his wacky hacky eye implant. He tests all his digits and the range of motion of his shoulder before he sits back in his chair, satisfied.

“I, um,” he stammers after a moment, idly tracing the fingers of his left hand over the dark, painted metal and along the accent lines of blue. “Thank you. For this. I didn’t say it before and I— I should have. You didn’t have to, you know, get this for me. So really. Thanks.”

Fiona picks at one of the spots where her nail polish is starting to chip, shrugging indifferently. “Yeah, well. It doesn’t clash as bad anymore, at least. That’ll make looking at you easier.”

He rolls his eyes. “Har har, very funny.”

“I mean it. The yellow was just— _ugh_.” She gives a little shudder for emphasis. “It was bad. Tacky, too. And it definitely wasn’t doing any favors for your complexion.”

“Well then, I guess my complexion thanks you,” he retorts sarcastically, but not unkindly. Fiona glances over at him to see that he’s actually _smiling_ , of all things, just a little, the corner of his mouth quirked upwards just enough for something uncomfortably warm to start smoldering in the base of her throat.

“By the way,” he begins again after a second, that little smile fading into something slow and unsure. “I, uh. I’ve been meaning to tell you that I really like your whole,” he gestures vaguely at the entirety of her, “um. You know. You.”

Uh. What. “My whole... me?”

“I mean— I mean your new clothes and— and stuff,” he rushes to clarify, laughing nervously and carding shaky fingers through his hair. “The whole... getup. It’s nice. It, um, suits you.”

“Oh,” she says stupidly.

Rhys clears his throat, folding and refolding his hands in his lap a few times before ducking his head once. “Eeeyup.”

A full minute of oppressive silence passes before Fiona suddenly sits up and goes, “I think I need to go.”

“Yeah, me too,” Rhys agrees, pushing himself up to his feet just as quickly. “Things to do and, uh, people to... talk to...”

They’re both trying to get around each other so badly that they fall into that weird dance of repeatedly stepping to the same side in tandem. But they eventually figure it out after what Fiona would consider a rather embarrassing amount of time and continue on in opposite directions, with Rhys heading the same way Sasha and Gortys went while Fiona throws herself into the elevator that leads to the lower levels of the facility.

She’s on the ground when the doors slide open again, knees pulled up to her chest and arms wrapped around them to try to squeeze out this sticky, suffocating, _warm_ feeling of— of—

A pair of boots shuffles around right outside the threshold of the elevator, and Fiona glances up to find Athena staring down at her, looking... terribly unimpressed. “Do I even want to know what your problem is?”

Fiona thinks about it for a second. And then she shakes her head.

“Thought so.” Athena holds out a hand for her to take. “Whatever it is, I bet shooting some stuff will make you feel better.”

Fiona makes a face at that. “Does that usually help you?”

Athena shrugs. “Sometimes.”

Her head is still swimming, her thoughts still lingering. Thoughts of blue ink and half smiles and sincere words she never expected to hear but... wouldn’t necessarily be unhappy to hear again.

Sighing, Fiona grabs onto Athena’s fingers to pull herself up.

She supposes _sometimes_ is as good a guarantee as she’s going to get.

“Just tell me what I’m supposed to be aiming at.”


End file.
